


The Collector

by sparrow2000



Series: Being Normal/The Collector [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 16:55:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21359539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparrow2000/pseuds/sparrow2000
Summary: After the fall of Sunnydale, Xander has finally found his place in the world, but that doesn’t stop his best friend worrying.
Series: Being Normal/The Collector [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1539805
Kudos: 13
Collections: Buffyverse Top 5





	The Collector

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Nothing to worry about  
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy et al own everything. I own nothing  
Beta extraordinaire as always: thismaz  
Comments are cuddled and called George
> 
> This is set in the same universe as my story Being Normal. Although that was mainly about Giles, with a guest spot by Illyria, Xander made a cameo appearance, and it was his job in that story that made me curious about his place in this particular universe. You don’t have to read that story first - suffice to say that Illyria calls Xander ‘The Collector’ when he comes to pick up a fallen slayer. Of course, if you’d like to read both stories back to back, I’d be delighted!
> 
> This was written back in 2015, but I just noticed I'd never posted it here... so now I have!

**The Collector**

It was quiet in the wood shop. Just the sound of the plane shaving curls from a side of pine and the boom box in the corner, turned down to almost nothing, playing some kind of mellow crooner music that fit with the rhythm of the blade’s cutting edge sliding along the wood.

Xander had his back to the door. His Scooby trained brain knew it wasn’t the best position, but considering the shop was in the grounds of a house that was warded ten ways from Sunday, he wasn’t really worried about unexpected attacks. The shape of the room meant the best place for his workbench was against the back wall and, in turn, that meant he had to do the prep work on the big pieces of wood with his back to the door. It was one of the few parts of his life where practical won out over paranoid.

There was the sound of footsteps on the gravel path outside, then the clip clop of wood on the stone doorstep. ‘Willow’ he thought. She was wearing her clogs again. She paused on the threshold and he could almost feel her eyes boring into his back. He stopped work, plane still in his hand and turned around. “Hey, witchy girl,” he said.

“Hey,” she replied.

“What’s the what?” He arched his back, stretching out the kinks, the plane still in his hand like a home-made dumbbell.

“I wish you wouldn’t shut yourself away.” The words came out in a rush, as if they’d been dammed up behind her teeth.

He put the plane down on the bench behind him and picked up a cloth, wiping the sawdust from his hands. “Not exactly shutting myself away, Wills. I mean, open window, open door, fresh air coming in, people coming by-” He waved the cloth in her direction. “Case in point. Not exactly the definition of shutting away.”

She took a tentative clip clop forward then stopped, her arms wrapped across her stomach, hands cupping her elbows.

The defensiveness of the gesture gave him pause and he stuffed his hands in his pockets, the cloth hanging out so that sawdust cascaded down onto the leg of his jeans.“Are you okay?” he asked. “Has something happened? One of the girls... do I need to go out? The phone didn’t ring.” He glanced over at his cell, resting on the broad window ledge.

“No,” she said. Her voice was as clipped as the clop of her clogs when she took another step forward. “It’s got nothing to do with them.”

“Wills, what’s going on?” He fought the built-in urge to walk towards her. Not until he knew he was on solid ground.

“Nothing’s going on.” She let her hands hang free and took a few meandering steps to the side, until she reached the pile of fresh lumber stacked up against the wall. She ran her fingertips along the edge of the wood and he had the strangest desire to pull her away, as if she was touching something personal. Instead, he waited for a clue to what was on her mind.

“That’s the problem,” she continued finally. She turned away from the wood pile and studied him.“Nothing’s happening.”

“I don’t understand.” He could almost feel the flags under his feet turning to quicksand with every word.

“You,” she said. “You’re not happening.”

He backed up a step and leaned against the workbench. Somehow it felt comforting to have the solidity of the wood and the knowledge that his tools were at his back. “Is that the same as not being hip?” he asked. “‘Cause, I got to say, I don’t think I was ever hip. Though there was that day in 12th grade when I let Cordy dress me and I think I was heading in the hipness direction, even though it didn’t last.”

“Will you stop that.”

“Stop what? Talking? It’s going to be kind of difficult to have a conversation if I’m not talking and – “ He stopped abruptly and cocked his head. “But you’re not here to have a conversation, are you? You’re here to talk at me, not too me, aren’t you?”

“No,” she denied, then flushed. “Well maybe just a little bit. That obvious, huh?”

“You’ve got that look, like I haven’t done my homework, or fell asleep during a research session.”

“Okay, so I’m predictable, sue me.”

“Come on then, hit me with it.” His hands itched to mirror the same defensive gesture she’d shown earlier, but he kept them in his pockets where they couldn’t get him into trouble.“What do you mean, I’m not happening?

“You’re always in here. Or in the van. We never see you. It’s like you’re more comfortable with bodies and coffins than you are with people anymore. With us.”

“You saw me this morning at breakfast. Okay breakfast was a piece of toast and coffee, because seriously, not even you are going to get me to eat that granola stuff you keep peddling.” His hands escaped from his pockets and he held them up in front of him.The cloth fell to the floor scattering more sawdust in its wake. “Sorry, reflex reaction. Impending serious conversation. Engage evasive distraction technique.”

“Don’t I know it,” she muttered.

“So what’s really bothering you?”

She sighed. “I overheard a couple of the new girls talking. They’re scared of you.”

“Super powered girls scared of me? That’s a new one. That was my sceptical voice, in case it didn’t quite come across.”

“It’s because of what you do. The Collecting. They think it’s kind of creepy. They even said they think you shouldn’t eat with the rest of us, because you’ve been handling bodies and coffins and they were glad you don’t go out with any of the teams, because you’d just be following them around like some kind of grim reaper waiting for them to get dead.”

“Willow.” He had no idea what to say next and faltered. His eyes flicked to the sawdust on the floor by the cloth and he made a mental note to sweep it up after she’d gone.

“I hate it,” she said. “I hate that they don’t know you. I hate that they’re scared of you. I mean really, who could be scared of you? And I hate that they obviously don’t respect you. They don’t know how you’ve fought all these years, and I hate that you’re just giving them more ammunition by hiding away in here doing this, this stuff, and going out in the van, and...I hate that everyone actually calls you The Collector, because they’re right, it is creepy, and ... and you don’t smile anymore,” she finished.

“Do you want me stop?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stop going out in the van. Stop Collecting?”

“Would you?”

“I guess the question really is, if not me, then who? Someone needs to do it.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice was so soft he could barely make out the words. But he recognised the tone and her body language from all the years they’d known each other. “It’s just, does it have to be you?”

He pushed off the workbench and wandered over to the window. Ignoring the cell phone which now seemed to lie on the ledge like an accusation of past and future misdeeds, he stared out at the little courtyard beyond. There was a wooden bench made with old railroad ties that he’d knocked together in a rare quiet moment, and Dawn had planted some flowers in a couple of reclaimed chimney pots she’d found stacked up behind the wood shed.

He contemplated the scene and his fingers rubbed absently over the wooden window sill. “You know,” he said. “Every job has its own rhythm. The ice cream truck had drive and park, scoop and serve, smile and next one please. Pizza delivery was knock and wait, sorry I can’t change a fifty, smile and see you next week. Construction was measure and cut, hammer and saw, smile and gripe and shoot the shit until the whistle goes.”

Turning, he rocked back on his heels, looking down, as if his work boots were the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen. He knew Willow was waiting for the punchline, so he looked back up. A slight breeze from the open window caught the ends of his hair where it curled at the back of his neck. He’d been meaning to get it cut, but there always seemed to something more important to do. “Collection has its own rhythm,” he started. “Some of it is physical for sure – wait and drive, wait and carry. Then I’m in my carpenter groove with the hammer and saw and a side of pine. Then it’s back to waiting.”

“Wait and mourn,” Willow whispered.

“That too,” he acknowledged. “Somehow, smiling got lost along the way. But the rhythm is still there. It's just a lot of it is in my head.”

“Xander.”

“I’m just trying to explain, Will. Buffy throws an awesome stake. You cast a mean spell, Dawn is translation gal, and Giles is the man with the plan and the musty books in apocalypse season. You all have your groove, your rhythm with the things you do best. You do other things too, but when it comes to the stuff that goes bump in the night, those are your things.”

“But that’s-“ she started, but he interrupted before she could marshal her arguments.

“Let me try to explain in my own way,” he said. “Those are your things, like I said. And me, I have my groove too. I’m the one that provides the backup. When we made the decision to do the spell, we didn’t really think about what it would do to hundreds of girls. We took away their choice as well as giving them super strength. Now they’re fighting, and they’re dying, and it feels right to me that one of us who is responsible for that, is there to pick them up when they do.” He reached out and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t mean that I can’t shoot a mean crossbow if I have to. Or get with the research party if it's needed. But being out in the van after the phone rings, and being here making these coffins, it feels like I’m doing something necessary. Something respectful. That’s got a rhythm of its own and it’s something that I can do, where I can contribute. It’s my thing, you know. I finally found my thing.”

“And not a penis metaphor in sight,” she said.

“Not so you’d notice, no. I’m sorry that those girls can’t handle it. If they think it’s morbid. And I’m sorry that it upsets you. But there’s not a queue of people lining up to do the job and it’s something I can do.”

“I just wish you didn’t have to,” she said.

“Me too, but if these girls have to die, I need to know that we’re not going to just leave them in some dark alley. And if I have to watch them go off to that damn crematorium in a pine box, it’s going to be the best pine box I can make.”

“I know,” she said. She reached up on her tip toes and gave him a small kiss on the cheek. “I’ll go away and stop bugging you for now.”

“That’s fine,” he replied. “It’s not like you don’t know where to find me.” He paused. “Do you need me to talk to the girls?”

“No, I can handle it.”

“Fair enough.”

He stepped away from her, and wandered back towards the window, his hip coming to rest against the ledge, the cell phone brushing against the edge of his t-shirt. He watched as she turned around and walked back across the stone flags towards the door. The clip clop of her clogs had a rhythm, just like his plane on a side of wood, and a thought formed in his mind.

“I have one question,” he said.

She paused by the door and turned round. “Only one?”

“Yeah. I just wondered. Is this thing, this concern, is it just coming from you, or was there some kind of discussion that I needed an intervention and you got the short straw?”

Her fingers brushed slowly down the rough sandstone at the edge of the door. “Kind of both,” she said finally. “I was worried and I admit I brought it up with the others. I wasn’t talking behind your back. I just...I just wanted to check if it was just me being obsessive and mother henny, or whether anyone else was worried too.”

“And?”

“Giles and Buffy both said that it had crossed their mind, but they’d been so busy that they hadn’t really thought it through, although I think in Giles' case, he’s just so exhausted, I’m surprised he remembers his own name sometimes. Dawn said she’d thought about talking to you, but didn’t know what to say and didn’t want to upset you.”

“And the others?”

“Spike blew smoke in my face and walked away. And Illyria, she...she told me I was being disrespectful. That no one questioned me being a witch, or Buffy being senior slayer, or Giles being a watcher. She didn’t put it quite like that, but that’s the translation. And of course, no one dares to question her role as a superior being, because we’re all amoeba in her eyes, so why did I think it was okay to question your role as Collector?”

“And do you think it’s okay?”

“Okay that you are our Collector? Or okay that I questioned it? And yeah, now I’m doing divert and distract.”

“I spotted that.”

“It’s not my intention to be disrespectful.” She spoke slowly, like her words were mines that could blow up in her face. He thought it was funny how he’d been the wary one when she’d first raised the subject, but now the clog was on the other foot. “I know you’re not sixteen anymore,” she said. “Like I say, you’ve seen so much and I hate that some of the girls don’t acknowledge that. And I’m not speaking for Buffy, or Giles, or any of the others, even if I did talk to them. I’m speaking for me. Willow. Who’s known you since footie pyjamas. I’m just speaking as your friend and friends... friends can be worried about each other.”

Xander pushed off the window ledge and crossed the floor. He stopped in front of her and placed his hand next to hers, resting it on the sandstone wall. “That’s okay then. As a friend, thank you for caring. Thank you for worrying. As a friend, accept that I’m okay. I’m not hiding myself away. I’m still happening, as you put it. It’s just the happening has a different shape from it used to. As a friend, believe that I’ll come and talk to you, if I need to.”

“Promise?” she said.

“Promise,” he acknowledged. He squeezed her hand and took a step back.

She smiled at him and started to turn away.

“Just remember, Willow,” he said before she could take the first step. “As friends, we say all those things. But we’re not just friends. Buffy is still the Slayer. Giles is still the Watcher and Illyria is still a God, at least in her own mind. These are the roles they play. And you are still the Witch and I’m the Collector. Those are our roles. Some people are Chosen. Other chose. This is what I’ve chosen for me.”

“I know,” she said. Her voice was barely a whisper above the birdsong coming from the bright yard beyond the shadow of the doorway. She paused, halfway in and out of the light before nodding as if she’d come to decision. Then she stepped over the threshold and walked slowly down the path, her clogs scuffing on the gravel.

Xander waited until the sound of her footsteps faded away, before turning and making his way back to his work bench. He switched the CDs in the boom box and the crooner music turned to something more melancholy. Running his thumb down the half-finished side of old pine, he paused when he discovered a rough patch. He picked up his plane and began the delicate dance between the blade and the wood until the roughness was conquered and the wood was smooth under his touch.

Then he laid the piece aside and picked up other side of pine and started the process again.


End file.
